Pete Hitzeman

A 30-ish runner, rider, racer, cyclist and Air National Guardsman. And, as you may find here, a sometimes-writer.

Apr 012014
 
Pulling 275 for 15 reps almost killed me. And I never felt better.

Pulling 275 for 15 reps almost killed me. And I never felt better.

14.1 nearly broke my left foot.

14.2 damaged my confidence.

14.3 landed me in the hospital with exertional headaches.

14.4 ripped open both of my hands.

14.5 beat me down for more than twenty-six minutes, and left my arms nearly inoperable for four days.

And I can’t wait to do it all again.

My rookie season of the CrossFit Open has drawn to a close. It was five weeks of nail-biting anticipation, brutal punishment, personal triumph, and soul-crushing struggle. I simultaneously performed better than expected and worse than I hoped. I was able to post a score for all five workouts, which is a huge victory in itself. I also found that I have huge gaps in my skills that are impossible to mask with any amount of strength or hard work.

Trying for dubs. Sometimes, even getting them.

Trying for dubs. Sometimes, even getting them.

The final tally shows that I finished 4188th out of 4494 men in my region who submitted a score for all five workouts, and ahead of some hundreds more who didn’t, or couldn’t complete them all. It is not a spectacular result, but it is a result, and that is spectacular in its own way. Given that I only started CrossFit a few months ago, finishing at all is an accomplishment. Come to think of it, given the nature of the workouts this year, finishing is an accomplishment for just about everybody.

In a way, I’m glad that it’s over. Glad that I can get back to some goal work and some “regular” workouts. Glad that I don’t have to listen to Dave Castro’s smugness or that announcer’s screaming, overdramatic athlete introductions (seriously, that guy’s gotta go). Glad that I can take the time to work on some skills again, instead of just pounding through the best I can with what I’ve got.

Now that it’s over, how do I feel about how I’ve done? In a word, unsatisfied. Don’t misunderstand, I did as well as I could. I put in a maximum effort on each workout. But I made some mistakes, and I’m missing some skills, and down on some strengths that I know I’ll have in a few more months. A study of the leaderboard shows that with just a little more work on those skills, I could move up hundreds of places. The game of what-if is irresistible.

Adam has an impressive snatch.

Adam has an impressive snatch.

Unexpectedly, I had as much fun judging as I did competing. There is an intense intimacy between athlete and judge for those few minutes of a performance. While it isn’t the judge’s role to cheer on the athlete, all of their focus and energy is directed at the athlete’s success. The effect is nearly tangible, and when they are finished, you feel as if you shared in their triumph, in a small way. And it has nothing to do with the relative skill of the athlete. I was as enriched by judging some of the our beginners as by the elite athletes at our gym.

There has been no small amount of controversy surrounding this year’s Open workouts. The Open is pitched by CrossFit corporate and at boxes around the world as the “Games for the rest of us,” but this year’s barriers to entry were pretty high. There were several movements required for this year (double unders, overhead squat, toes to bar)  requiring skills that a whole lot of the rank and file simply don’t have.

My mustache is sort of the opposite of Samson's hair.

My mustache is sort of the opposite of Samson’s hair.

One workout required the use of a rower, which is expensive enough that most boxes only have a few, and nobody has in their home gym. One of the founding concepts of the Open was supposed to be that anybody, anywhere, with a minimum of equipment, could compete, regardless of their access to a CrossFit gym. This year, that was plainly not the case.

The athletes felt overwhelmed. The affiliate owners felt betrayed. And then we all muttered something about Dave Castro’s mother under our breath, laced up our shoes, and did it anyway.

Where the 2014 CrossFit Open succeeded was the same place all previous editions did: with the community of athletes. We came together as teams, put out efforts that were beyond what we thought possible, and pushed ourselves well outside our comfort zone. For a collection of people who do something as randomized and intense as CrossFit, that last bit is really saying something.

Chicks dig strong dudes. Fact.

Chicks dig strong dudes. Fact.

The enduring images I will take away from my first Open experience will not be of Rich Froning and Sam Briggs, hammering out in less than 8 minutes what takes us mortals at least 18. I will remember Mike, laughing at himself between reps of toes-to-bar. I’ll remember Julie, hoisting an impossibly heavy bar over her head for one thruster at a time, chipping away at it until she finished. I’ll remember Adam, power cleaning so hard that I thought he was going to die. I’ll remember Katie, digging deep for those last two sets to finish strong. And I’ll remember all the clapping, and fist bumping, and cheering, and the commiserating over huge plates of food when each workout was over.

And I’ll be back, to find out how much stronger I can be.

Mar 242014
 
The trip to Elkinsville, any way you slice it, is one tough mother.

The trip to Elkinsville, any way you slice it, is one tough mother.

(Read Part 1 here)

The wisdom of our end-around route to avoid Combs Creek Road was soon called into question by a surprising amount of elevation change, and what seemed like an endless number of miles. In fact, our grand plan had added some 12 miles to our total, and they weren’t anywhere near as easy or swift to traverse as we had hoped. By the time we had climbed the mile-long, rutted doubletrack to the cemetery at Elkinsville, we were all ready to give our initial plan a harder look.

Endless, winding gravel. Fun if you're feeling well. Hell if you're not.

Endless, winding gravel. Fun if you’re feeling well. Hell if you’re not.

Even after the length of our excursion was clear, I was hesitant to deviate from it. The only other way South, where the remainder of our checkpoints lay, was on the dreaded Road-That-Sometimes-Isn’t. Jason’s condition had continued to degrade, and he was unable to make more than about 12 miles an hour, even on the flats. We had a choice to make, and neither option was good. Either we headed back the way we came, around half the county to avoid the mud, and risk grinding Jason’s legs to a dead stop, or we took on Combs Creek, and hoped that the hike wouldn’t blow them out entirely. Oh, and that my cyclocross bike would be up to the task of singletrack through a swamp.

In the end, we decided that miles were more daunting than the mud. We would take Combs Creek Road. That crusher of spirits, that destroyer of dreams, that haunt of the souls of men; that was the road we chose.

I didn’t have a great feeling about it.

As it turned out, it wasn’t so bad as the nightmares of last season’s event had persuaded us it would be. The colder temperatures of this winter had left a portion of the water still frozen under the mud, so it wasn’t as deep, and the standing water wasn’t as high. Even the sections that were impassable by bike were welcome in that they provided a change of pace. Being off the bike for a bit and walking, even if it was trudging through the mud, allowed our legs to relax a bit.

We spent the next two miles riding when we could, walking when we couldn’t, and setting our jaws, as men do against difficult tasks. The members of the fairer sex we encountered on Combs were handling the challenge with characteristic grace, smiling and encouraging each other with compliments and jokes. We grunted and panted up the hills, trying to smile at their greetings, but mostly wondering how they could be so damn cheerful in a time and place such as this.

While taking this picture, Jason was contemplating a permanent residence here.

While taking this picture, Jason was contemplating a permanent residence here.

What did put a smile on my face was the performance of my humble little ‘cross bike. Despite being placed in conditions never imagined by its designers, it did everything I asked of it, and then some. For one stretch, behind a couple fat bikes whose 4-inch tires were tailor-made for the conditions, I actually found myself gaining on them!

Slowly, the mud bog gave way to creek crossings, then jeep tracks, and finally the gate that closes the route to vehicular traffic came into view. We had made it! We conquered Combs Creek Road! Or at least I thought we did, because when I turned around, I couldn’t seem to find Jason. A few minutes later he emerged, looking very haggard indeed, but with the relief of knowing that what we expected to be the worst was over.

Although we had cut significant mileage from our overall route by taking Combs, there was still quite a way to go to reach our final two mandatory checkpoints. It would be another eight miles to reach Hanner, with a brief stop along the way at Cornett for a time bonus that didn’t seem to matter any more.

Jason was suffering, there was no other word for it. I knew by this point that it wasn’t a matter of his conditioning, but that something else had gone terribly wrong, but he was determined to continue on, and so that’s what we did. Adding to the misery of his still-building fever was the fact that he was starting to have serious leg cramps, and had run out of water. I gave him one of my bottles of electrolytes, and he cashed it immediately. We hadn’t seen a SAG wagon for hours, and if we didn’t see one soon, I’d have to give him my hydration pack as well.

Four mandatory checkpoints down, one to go...

Jason’s smile is only because he finally got some more water. Four mandatory checkpoints down, one to go…

It took us every bit of an hour to get to Hanner Cemetery, where we finally ran into the SAG wagon. I refilled my bottles, and Jason replenished his CamelBak, and took in a little food. I felt terrible for him, but there was nothing I could do. I thought of swapping bikes, but figured that my bike’s more aggressive gearing would negate the weight advantage, especially as we were again into hilly territory. The cheery afternoon light had given way to a gloomy early evening, and I began to feel as if, for Jason and I alike, this just needed to be over. We had been out for a long, long time, and I couldn’t yet say how long we had to go. I did know that we’d stopped having fun some miles ago.

We turned right onto State Route 58, and I hoped that, it being a main road, the terrain would remain relatively flat. We turned into a slight wind, so I got in front, set my speed at a pace I thought Jason could maintain, and tried to give him a tow. A hundred yards later, I glanced over my shoulder, and he had dropped off already. I circled back and tried again, sitting tall in the saddle to block as much wind as I could, and setting a speed a couple clicks slower. Same result.

There was no pulling him. He was so overcome with sickness at this point that he bordered on delirium. I filed in behind him and offered what encouragement I could, counting down the miles to our next turn and reminiscing aloud about the events of last year. Anything to take his mind off his present misery.

Then the road did something cruel. What had been a false flat became steeper, until it was a legitimate climb. It rose nearly 300 feet by the time we turned, and most of that in the last half mile. My gearing wouldn’t allow me to stay with Jason without bogging, so I pulled ahead, opting instead to stop periodically and wait for him.

That face about says it all.

That face about says it all.

For me, this became the enduring image of the race. Despite how he was feeling, despite the miles and the mud and his cramping legs, Jason never quit. He clicked down to his granny gear and churned away at the pedals, dieseling up the hill with all the grim determination of a prize fighter in the tenth round. As much as I pitied his condition, I admired his resolve to finish even more, given his obvious and legitimate reasons to call it a day.

Our final checkpoint was Hickory Grove Church, situated at the top of an eponymous, winding ridge line. The road that took us there stayed at the top of that ridge, which meant that we had already accomplished the final big climb of the day. But there were plenty of little rollers along the ridge road, and each one became a mountain to my ailing teammate. We both began to wonder if we’d make it to the finish before the 6 pm time cutoff.

The twisting nature of the gravel road to the church deprived us of the obvious landmarks and lines of sight which make judging progress easy. I tried to break the remaining distance to the church into manageable segments for Jason, fearing all the while that my “just around one more curve” promises would become demoralizing if I was wrong. At last, the church came into view, and I feigned exuberance and sped ahead, hoping he would catch some of it and be able to forget his agony for a few moments.

It didn’t work. He rolled to a stop by the sign, and I could tell from his face that it was all he could do to get off the bike. We’d been out for so long that my phone battery was nearly dead, but I managed to snap our last two required photos before it did.

I love this bike. I think I'm going to name it Hoot.

I love this bike. I think I’m going to name it Hoot.

The good news was that this was our last checkpoint. The better news was that it would be nearly all downhill from there to the finish, and that meant we might just make it in time. We’d only have about 6 more miles to cover, and then it would all be over, and it would be time for beer, a hot shower, and food, and a warm bed!

At least, it would’ve been only six miles, if I hadn’t chosen that very moment to make my only navigational error of the day, and miss the turn onto McPike Branch Road. My miscue sent us zinging down the ridge on the South side instead of the West, adding two miles to our total when we could least afford it. As we neared the bottom, I began to suspect my error, but the lack of road signs and a dead phone battery meant I couldn’t quite be sure. We turned right when the road ended, and I glumly hoped that my gut feeling was wrong, and that we had taken the correct road. We hadn’t.

Jason was crestfallen, and I felt like I had let the air out of his tires, stolen his candy bar and kicked his puppy all at the same time. There was nothing to do for it now, only to pedal out the remaining four and a half miles to the finish. It took us half an hour. The county road dumped us out onto State Route 446 again. A slight rise was ahead, not more than 50 feet of elevation before our final turn, but it might as well have been Alpe d’Huez for Jason. He was so exhausted he couldn’t even look up, and so he just kept turning the cranks, watching his front tire eat up pavement, until he caught up to me at the top.

From there, it really was all down hill, and we coasted across the bridge to the finish, me standing on the pedals to charge the final few yards, and Jason nearly collapsing beneath the pats on the back from our waiting teammates. To the casual onlooker, it may have appeared an anticlimactic finish for a race. But those who have survived the Death March, and anyone who saw Jason’s condition knows that there should have been a brass band for him at the line. He was a soldier that day, and he earned his beer, even if he was in no condition to drink it afterward.

Finishing the Death March last year taught me about how far my body could be pushed. It taught me how to overcome physical pain with sheer determination. This year, it taught me that trying to avoid challenges sometimes results in bigger challenges. It taught me that “the right tool for the job” is sometimes overrated. And it taught me that holding back to help a friend make it home is just as rewarding as pounding through on your own. Jason’s endurance through suffering to get to the finish, both for his own conquest and to help me get the result I missed last year, will not soon be forgotten.

What trials, tricks and turmoil will the Death March bring us next year? I’m already making plans to find out.

Mar 242014
 
My wonderful, versatile 'cross bike!

Number plate affixed, ready to rock and roll!

That my last attempt at the Sub 9 Death March nearly killed me should have served as some deterrent. That this winter has been particularly severe and persistent should have discouraged me. Last year’s teammates opting out of this year’s event for those reasons and others should have been reason for me to follow suit.

But I didn’t. After training hard all through the winter, I wanted to have another go at the race that took me to the edge and showed me how to live there. I wanted to beat it, to show the hills how much stronger I’ve become, the mud how much better I can ride. I wanted to bring my teammate to the finish with me, thus earning the result I missed last year, since the rules require that you finish with your teammate.

So it was that I found myself on a brisk Saturday morning, bouncing my truck and trailer along the muddy fire roads in rural Brown County, Indiana. The Death March, as you loyal readers will recall, is an on/off road checkpoint race, which uses a selection of 17 old cemeteries as the checkpoints. There are five mandatory checkpoints in all, three of which are preselected, and two chosen out of a hat just before the start of the race. All additional checkpoints may be reached for various time bonuses, which will be subtracted from your overall time at the finish.

The original plan had been to scout part of the race route the day before, but that plan collapsed under the weight of a full day of packing and loading for a week-long adventure. I brought three bikes with me; the mountain bike I used last year, my cyclocross racer, and my motorcycle, which of course wouldn’t see the outside of the trailer until I arrived in Florida on Sunday evening.

Two wild and crazy guys!

Two wild and crazy guys!

Which knobby-tired bike to use would depend on what I found on the gravel roads that made up the majority of the route. If they were in suitable condition, I would take the ‘cross bike. If they were not, or if a checkpoint was selected that would require extensive use of singetrack trail (read: Callahan), I would take the mountain bike.

Our scouting excursion on the way to the staging area proved as encouraging as it was useful . The roads were mostly clear of snow, and the muddy spots seemed either navigable or entirely avoidable. The three pre-selected checkpoints (Hillenberg-Stephenson, Elkinsville and Hanner) would ensure that we covered respectable mileage, but on my ‘cross bike this was no issue. Then we were granted a favor when the final two checkpoints (Hickory Grove and Mitchell) were drawn. Neither added substantial mileage to the route, and more crucially, neither required the navigation of muddy, serpentine trails to reach.

Two checkpoints down already? This is easy!

Two checkpoints down already? This is easy!

There was only one limiting factor in our plan: how to get to Elkinsville. The direct route takes you up Combs Creek Road, a route that, for some stretches, loses the “road” part of its appellation entirely. Last year, it was the graveyard of many racers’ dreams of a finish, including those of my teammate. The power required to slog through the muddy mess that the road became sent his legs into cramps and spasms from which he never recovered, and he was forced to retire.

Having been warned off by previous experience, this year’s team agreed to take the long way around, avoiding the muddy nightmares of Combs Creek “Road” and picking up the bonus checkpoints at Houston and Lutes, instead. We reasoned that what it added in length, it would make up in speed. When we came to the bridge at Maumee, we would turn right where other teams went left, and time would tell if our gamble would pay out.

After the final two checkpoints were announced, our foursome, which consisted of Mike and Kelly on one team, and Jason and me on the other, huddled over our maps briefly, and then set off across the bridge at an easy pace. Mitchell Cemetery was only a mile from the start, so we took the low hanging fruit early. The couple of rolling hills on the way there gave us a chance to warm up our legs, and I was happy to feel the wind on my face again, after a winter spent with too many hours inside, slaving on the trainer and at the gym.

Word to your mother.

Word to your mother.

We rolled out of Mitchell and turned right, up the gentle hill on State Route 446 toward Hillenburg. This was the route that the majority of teams took at the start, so despite our delayed departure, there was a logjam of bikes and riders by the sign, waiting for their turn for the requisite picture. Completing two of the five mandatory checkpoints so quickly created a deceiving sense of progress, even though we had ridden a scant five miles, and most of that on pavement.

The race began in earnest when we turned off of State Route 446, onto Tower Ridge Road. The road gave us enough mud, gravel and rolling hills to keep our attention and challenge our legs a little. I made sure to keep my aggression on the climbs in check, knowing that the grueling parts of the race were a long way ahead of us. Still, the miles were coming easy, our crew was in good spirits, and my bike was working flawlessly. There were some patches of slushy ice along this stretch that kept me on my toes. The mountain bikes would blow past me on the descents, confident in the traction of their fatter tires. But I would surge past them again when the grade turned upward, standing on the pedals just to stretch my legs.

Top of the tower.

Top of the tower.

We paused at Todd Cemetery for an easy bonus, then pressed on to the lookout tower itself. Climbing the 133 steps to the top was worth a 35 minute time bonus, if you were so inclined. Some of our crew were not, but my teammate and I climbed all the way to the cab, and snapped our pictures. We took our first break when we came back down, munching on some food and getting some electrolytes. As we rolled out onto the gravel road again, Jason mentioned that he was feeling a little queasy. We both shrugged it off–it was probably nothing, right?–and pressed on.

A series of swift downhills brought us to Robertson Cemetery for another time bonus, and then we slogged along some soft gravel and mud to the bridge at Maumee. Sticking to the plan, we turned right as the rest of the crowd headed left, and thought ourselves clever as we sped down the pavement.

Some weirdo behind us was still having fun at this stage.

Some weirdo behind us was still having fun at this stage.

It was on the three mile stretch to Houston that I began to notice Jason lagging behind, especially on the occasional hill. I held back the pace to stay with him, figuring that the additional weight and less advantageous gearing of his mountain bike made speed on the road less easy than my  comparatively sleek, light, and road-geared ‘crosser. In fact, and unbeknownst to all of us, his lack of power was due to an unfortunately-timed case of the flu, the effects of which would become increasingly debilitating as the race wore on. Even when the four of us were set upon by a few farm dogs (whose gravest threat beyond their barking was that one of them ran in front of Mike’s wheel and was nearly run over), he didn’t seem able to accelerate much.

I'm laughing at my poor decision to cut across the cornfield. Jason is finding no humor in any of this.

I’m laughing at my poor decision to cut across the cornfield. Jason is finding no humor in any of this.

I, on the other hand, was feeling no such illness, and so jumped at the chance to cut across the edge of a cornfield, in order to take a more direct route to the cemetery in Houston. That shortcut proved a completely terrible idea. The ground was softer than it appeared, and so we all ended up in our granny gears, churning through it and laughing through gritted teeth. I suspect the others were laughing to keep themselves from cussing me out. It was like riding through peanut butter. The grassy yard between the cornfield and the cemetery was in no better condition, and I nearly fell over when my tires sank inches deep into the turf-camouflaged mud. If my teammates had chosen at that moment to make me carry their packs for the rest of the race, I would hardly have blamed them!

We departed Houston and made the long, gradual climb to Lutes. My teammate’s condition was declining with every mile, and he found his legs unwilling to respond to his calls for more power. We rallied up at Lutes and I made sure we each took in some food. A few hills later, the unspoken decision was made to separate our teams, allowing the stronger pair to go ahead, while I stayed back with Jason. We would rally again at Elkinsville.

To be continued…

It's starting to become a long day, and we're not yet half way through...

It’s starting to become a long day, and we’re not yet half way through…

 

Mar 202014
 
Riding the pine. Not where I wanted to be, at this point in the season.

Riding the pine. Not where I wanted to be, at this point in the season.

It happens to every athlete, at some point. When you push the bounds of what your body is capable of, when you’re constantly approaching the limits of your physical system, sometimes your body pushes back. A joint will give way, a muscle will tear, a minor injury will happen. When you push to the maximum, a small area of weakness will yield, and you’ll find yourself on the bench, or worse, in the hospital.

I’ve nursed a variety of large and small injuries over the past few years, as I’ve ramped up my fitness. I had my right ACL reconstructed in 2010 after blowing it playing basketball. I’ve had problems with my left knee and hip, both shoulders, and my upper spine. Most of these minor issues have been corrected by a short period of rest, some Motrin, and adjustments to my training technique or riding position. Of note, none of these problems have caused me to miss or DNF a race, to date.

The last time I was completely unable to train.

The last time I was completely unable to train.

In a way, I’m thankful for these small problems. I’m of the opinion that my body uses them as “circuit breakers,” to force me to take a break before something more catastrophic happens.

That’s it for the positive.

The latest malady I’ve had to deal with is totally debilitating. On Friday, I completed CrossFit Open workout 14.3 at Total Control in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. It’s an 8 minute workout of alternating deadlifts and box jumps/step-ups, with the weight and reps of deadlift increasing with each round. When the clock ran out, I dropped 15th and last rep of 275, and immediately my head exploded. For the next few minutes, I had an almost debilitating headache. It subsided after about 10 minutes, and I didn’t think much more of it.

Monday morning, I decided I wanted to try for a better score. I warmed up and tore into the workout, at a sufficient pace to beat my previous effort. But 5 reps into my set of 225 lb deadlifts, I set the bar down to get a breath and reset, and my head exploded again. I dropped to the floor in pain, and had to abandon the workout. 20 minutes later, the pain had subsided enough for me to function and drive home, but it never really went away for the rest of the day.

I felt better in the morning, but I spent all of Tuesday and Wednesday just feeling off. A hint of a headache would come and go, and I was groggy and had intermittent trouble concentrating. I felt like I needed another big cup of coffee, but coffee didn’t help.

(Not my brain)

(Not my brain)

It happened again Wednesday night, this time without working out. The feeling was like somebody was driving a large ice pick up through the base of my skull. At its height, the pain was crippling. I told Katie I needed to go the hospital, and she drove me to the ER. They did two CT scans of my noggin which showed nothing abnormal (good news), and they gave me some intravenous medicines and sent me home.

It may be some time before I have an actionable diagnosis. One thing for certain in the meantime is that there will be no training or racing until we get this figured out. This weekend was going to be a big one. I was going to race on the Killer Gravel at the Barry-Roubaix in Michigan, covering 62 miles and almost 4000 feet of climbing. But with my head the way it is, it’s just not a good idea. I’m probably out of the CrossFit Open, as well, and next month’s races (a half marathon and a 65 mile mountain bike race) are in doubt.

Setbacks happen in any athlete’s progression. When you’re trying to be the absolute best you can be, sometimes you overreach by just a little, and suffer the consequences. I’m thankful that there is no evidence of anything truly scary yet, but still gutted that I find myself sidelined just as the race season was starting to crescendo. I’m feeling strong, light, fast and ready for the challenges I laid out for myself this year. I’ve been moving weights and climbing hills that I would’ve thought impossible only a couple years ago. But when your body says NO MAS, sometimes you don’t have any choice but to listen.

Jan 172014
 
It may not look like I'm having fun here, but I promise I am.

It may not look like I’m having fun here, but I promise I am.

Of all the sports and physical activities in which I engage, none is so polarizing among my friends as running. That’s surprising, given that running is the one sport I do that our bodies were specifically engineered to do, if the human physiological adaptations for moving faster than a walk are considered. And yet when I tell people I run, or about a big race I just finished, non-runners will invariably react with an expression somewhere between confused and horrified.

I get it. I get it more than most people would understand. I hated running for most of my life. I wasn’t good at it in school. I ran track in Junior High, middle distance, and was painfully slow. I was so bad at it that I didn’t run competitively again for more than a decade. I’ve never had great lung capacity, my feet flatter than a pancake on a sidewalk in Holland, my knees are less than top-shelf equipment, and I’m not all that strong. I smoked heavily for 9 years. Until a few years ago, all running ever did for me was hurt, even though I had done a whole lot of it. Heck, I wrestled in High School, and at a lot of practices we would run more than the Cross Country team, but I never got any better at it.

Running still hurts. It makes my joints ache, and my lungs burn. Part of me still hates it. Every single time that I run, I cross a threshold where I wonder why I’m doing it. That moment of misery awakens every voice in me that says “quit,” that questions everything I’ve worked for, and the time and effort I’ve put in working for it. I’m still not all that fast. I still don’t have great lungs or legs. Most days, I’m not a contender to win much of anything.

But I run anyway. I run because it does things for me that no other sport does. I run because of the feeling of moving fast along the ground, by nothing but your own power. I run because the runners’ high is stronger than that of any other sport I’ve tried. I run to silence that inner voice, to prove it wrong. I run to stare my doubts straight in the eye and tell them they mean nothing. I run to beat myself, to beat the parts of me that I don’t like.

And I run because they told me not to. In the early summer of 2010, I was rehabbing my right knee after ACL reconstruction surgery. My physical therapist had just put me on the treadmill for the first time and let me jog for a  couple minutes. I was still dealing with quite a lot of pain, and my knee felt loose. My muscles were so weak from post-surgery atrophy that every step on my right leg felt like imminent collapse. I asked the PT how much I’d be able to run again, and he sort of laughed and shrugged. He told me that, since I was in the Air Force, I could probably hammer out my annual 1.5 mile run, but not much more. And I should be careful on my mountain bike, too.

If you know me, you know that telling me I can’t do something is a pretty sure way to get me to try it. I finished my rehab program two months ahead of schedule, and immediately started jogging again. I completed a couple 5k races that fall, running gingerly and slowly, but running. I spent all of 2011 travelling, and fell off the wagon for awhile. But when I got home in 2012, I was done making excuses. I signed up for the Air Force Half Marathon, and started training in earnest. I joined the Ohio River Road Runner’s Club for the inexpensive races. It was a year of trial and error, of leaps forward and setbacks, but by the end of it, I had completed two half marathons and 20 other races, for a total of over 100 miles raced. Not bad for a guy with pieces missing out of his menisci!

I like running now because I chose to. I didn’t like it automatically. I didn’t like it because I’m naturally good at it, or because it’s easy for me, or any of that. I decided I wanted to do it for all of those reasons I talked about. Liking it happened later, and I can’t even say when. Now, the thought of not running is as repulsive to me as running once was. I used to look at runners and think, “why?” Now I know why, and I can’t imagine stopping.

Jan 132014
 
Sweat on a kettlebell.

Sweat on a kettlebell. If that doesn’t say CrossFit, I don’t know what does.

For any athlete new to CrossFit, the prescribed (Rx) weights and reps on most of the workouts can be daunting. For me, since I started going regularly late last year, they’ve ranged from “hey, I could almost… no I can’t” to “there is no freaking way.” For several WODs, I’ve been able to Rx two out of three exercises, but not that third one. Many of the overhead movements are just beyond my strength, I don’t have a whole lot of pull-ups strung together yet, and don’t even get me started on double-unders. Those are a long, long way off.

Even if the exercises present are things that I can do, sometimes I still can’t Rx the workout. Sometimes it isn’t a matter of the weight, but the volume. For instance, I can clean 135 lbs without too much trouble. But 45 times? Not so much. I can do pushups, but when the workout is umpteen sets of 20, I end up falling apart before it’s over and having to switch to a different movement to finish up.

All that said, CrossFit is nothing if not variable. It was only a matter of time before the right combination of movements, sets and reps came up together, on a day that I could go. A couple weeks ago, that day finally came for me. I checked CrossFit Dedication‘s site as I was getting ready for bed, and got more excited than a person really should get about an impending twelve minutes of grueling misery. It wasn’t complicated, it wasn’t flashy, but it was doable: ten reps each of kettlebell swings, box jumps and burpees, for as many rounds as possible in the allotted time.

I didn’t walk in the next evening with the idea of Rx-ing the WOD. The prescribed 53-lb kettlebell is still pretty heavy for me for swings, and this would be a high-intensity workout anyway. I figured I’d use the 35 pounder and call it good, but then two things happened: Katie picked up a 35 pounder, and Matt (our coach) mentioned a tweak for my form that suddenly made the KB fly up much faster and easier than I was used to. Just before the WOD started, I swapped my 35 for a 53, and then we went at it!

It's a small thing, but it means more than you'd think.

It’s a small thing, but it means more than you’d think.

I tried to set a steady pace from the outset, but the combination of the increased weight and the dynamic movements had me sucking wind by the end of my second round. Sweat was pouring off of me. My lungs begged for mercy. My joints popped and my muscles complained, but I stayed focused. The possibility of completing my first Rx served as added motivation, and I eyed the clock at the end of round 4, trying to catch my breath a little. There was just enough time for one more round, if I really hustled!

I banged out the swings as quickly as I could, trying to be careful about my form with the increased weight as I got tired. My fatigue became apparent as I started the box jumps. I was really working to make the 24″ height, and I had to pause between the last several reps for air. Things got a little crazy on the burpees, which I had to really hammer out to finish my set. I was breathing as deep and as smoothly as I could, but I wasn’t meeting the demands of my body, and my vision started to blur and swirl! I was basically falling to the ground for the last five reps. It was ugly, but it worked, and I finished my last round with a few seconds to spare!

It’s been awhile since I pushed myself that close to the edge, and while working hard enough to get dizzy sounds extreme, I’m happy to do it. Finding out how your body reacts when pushing it to the limit is what training is all about, as it will help you better understand how to deal with it in competition.

It may be awhile before I Rx another WOD, but I’m glad to have the monkey off my back. It’s a small step, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s one that every CrossFit newbie looks forward to taking.

Dec 312013
 

2013.

I hope.

I hope that you’ve read all this. All of the baring of my soul and publishing of the details of my life to all the world. All the hours of capturing, editing, writing, editing again. I hope that you saw what I made for you, took it in, tasted it.

I hope you loved what you read as much as what you saw. I hope it made you laugh, made you cry, made you think. I hope the words that I wrote and the pictures that I took stuck in your head, and you thought about them later.

I hope you got to know me better. Even if we were already close, I hope that I showed you a part of me you never knew existed, and I hope that you like what you learned.

I hope that you leave this project, as I will, more appreciative of the exquisite, beautiful details present in every day of a life lived with passion.

But most of all, I hope inspired you to action. I hope I helped you see a way to improve your own life. I hope that you move, and sweat, and strive. I hope that you relax, and plant flowers, and cook dinner with your family, and drink beer with your friends. I hope that I have helped make your life better, in whatever small way I could.

I hope.

Dec 302013
 
A peek behind the curtain!

A peek behind the curtain!

So where do I go from here? I’ve talked about my goals for next season on the bikes, with my running, and at the gym. But what is to become of all this? This little project has developed a small, but devoted following. It’s become important to me and to more of you than I ever would have guessed, over the past 12 months. A whole lot of you have asked what will happen when the year is out, and expressed hope that I’ll continue.

Well, I think that I will. Daily posts aren’t very likely, but I intend to shift the focus from quantity to quality. There will be fewer “this is what I did today” posts, and more posts commenting on industry happenings, trends and news. More posts about training philosophy and motivation. I’ll still write about my races, and keep you all well appraised of what I’m doing, what I have planned, and where I’m going, but I want to broaden my subject matter by adding stories about other athletes as well.

Another thing I’ll be doing more of, with my sudden influx of spare time, is reading. My writing has only become what it is because I read a lot, but that’s had to take a back seat to the sheer volume of writing I’ve had to do as part of this project. In an effort to continue my development as a writer, it will be nice to be able to read, and by that to study the styles and techniques of others.

I’ll also be pursuing other writing opportunities, in an effort to broaden my skill set. You may see me linking to things I’ve written for other sites more, and hopefully one day I might even make a few bucks for what I write. There is a large gap between here and there, but it’s a possibility many of you have encouraged me to explore, and I want to.

In that vein, I’ve accepted a post as Communications Director for the Miami Valley Mountain Bike Association. I’ll be in charge of newsletter stuff, website stuff, social media stuff… In short, doing for them what I’ve done for myself all year this year. It’s a volunteer position, but an important step forward in my media career, if I’m to have one.

And what of this project as it sits? I’m not sure yet. It’s been suggested that I work it into book format. I may shop some of the articles out for republication. At the very least, it will serve as a memento of the year that has been. And if that’s all it ever becomes, it will have been worth the effort.

Dec 292013
 
What stories will I have to tell at this time next year?

What stories will I have to tell at this time next year?

It’s no secret that I started planning for next season months ago. With how the last two seasons have gone, I can barely wait to write another chapter! I started off this year with some ambitious goals, and while I missed a few small ones, they all served to spur me forward.

For 2014, all I want is more of that. I plan to do my best Daft Punk impersonation, and go harder, do better, race faster, and get stronger.

  • On the mountain bike, I want to become a regular contender for the podium in the Sport class in my local race series, and I want to hit 6 laps in the JB 6 hour race. I also want to expand my endurance racing outside the local area more, taking on at least one round of the TriState 6 Hour championship. I really want to complete a 100 mile mountain bike race, but we’ll have to see how things go early in the season, before I can commit to that as a goal. At the very least, I’ll be going for a few metric centuries.
  • On the road bike, I want to do Calvin’s Challenge again, and have another go at my goal of over 100 miles in 6 hours. If I can do that, I should be in the mix for a class win! Other than Calvin’s, I just want to improve my hill climbing ability, tackle the Linden Road hill in Miamisburg, and log a few more centuries during the Tour de Cure, the Young’s Ice Cream Charity Bicycle Tour and others.
  • I don’t have any real goals for the ‘Cross bike, other than to keep racing, improving my skills, and having fun. I may try out some gravel racing with it, if I can fit it in.
  • On foot, I only want to add speed, and continue to work toward being able to run injury-free. I’d like to lower my half marathon time below 1:45, my 5k below 22 minutes, and my 1.5 mile TT under 10 minutes.
  • In the weight room, my expectations are more modest. I need to develop some shoulder strength and scapular stability before my overhead movements can progress, but I would like my bench to get to 225. My squats need a lot of work as well, but I’d love to get 255. My deadlift is coming along nicely already, but I’d like to push the envelope and get over 400 for the first time. Outside of weight PRs, I want to continue to master more Olympic movements, and make my whole body more resistant to injury.
  • I’ll keep working on swimming, and will set a whole bunch of little goals, starting with just one length of the pool. If it ever clicks, I’d love to try my hand at a small triathlon.
  • I want to get the motorcycle back on track again, heading out a few weekends here and there to knock the cobwebs off. If I can get going well enough, I’d love to do a race weekend with MotoSeries at Putnam Park.
  • While all of that is going on, I want to drop my “race weight” under 180. That’ll be tough, but with how I felt at 185 this year, I certainly think it’s doable.

When I write it all out, it sounds like a lot. It is a lot. But having all these goals keeps me engaged, interested, and most of all, training. I may hit all of them. I may fall short on some, or abandon a few for lack of time or funds. Heck, I may wad myself up in a bike crash at the beginning of the year and spend the rest of the season rehabbing. But I’ll always make sure to have something to shoot for. For me, to do less would be not to live.

Eyes up, friends. 2014 is going to be amazing.

Dec 282013
 
Holy crap I made it!

Holy crap I made it!

Today at CrossFit was another team WOD, this time in teams of three. And a good thing too, since some of the exercises were things I wasn’t sure I could do. There were four stations, and each team would have three minutes at each to complete as many rounds as possible before having 1 minute to change stations and get reset. There were stations for deadlift/rope climbs, tire flips/push ups, wall walks/burpees over box, and farmer’s carry/wall balls, all in 3 rep increments.

I had never done rope climbs, tire flips or wall walks before today. The tire flips aren’t complicated, and I figured out wall walks during the warmup, but rope climbs… Well, I was just glad that there was somebody on my team (Emily, a visitor) who could do them.

The clock started and we set to it, blowing through reps with the same rowdy, kid-like fun I’ve come to expect from Saturday WODs. When we got to the station for deadlifts and rope climbs, Emily powered through three of the latter with impressive ease, and I pumped out the deadlifts. When it was time for our second round, Emily lurched up the rope again, but it was clear she was tiring. I had been watching what she did with her feet and decided to give it a go, locking the rope between my shoes and using them to push me up instead of just pulling with my arms.

And it worked! All the sudden I was at the top, and I touched the rafters before shimmying back down, grinning like a kid. Or better, because I could never climb ropes when I was a kid. I’ve never had the strength, and nobody ever showed me the technique before.

Any time you try a new sport, there’s a honeymoon period where everything is new and exciting, and you’re setting “firsts” every time you go out. Because CrossFit has you doing so many different things, the opportunity for that excitement is very frequent, and it’s not hard to see why it becomes addicting. I can climb ropes now! Who’d have ever thought?

Dec 272013
 
I gotta say, the sound effects are a little disappointing. (It doesn't have sound effects.)

I gotta say, the sound effects are a little disappointing.
(It doesn’t have sound effects.)

Our new cardio room at work has two new row machines, and they are the fanciest I have ever seen! Each one sports this fancy display, a belt drive in place of the customary chain, and servo-actuated resistance internal to the unit. Perhaps its best feature is the seat, which is slightly cushioned. That’s a big bonus when doing longer sessions.

I decided to try it out today, with the intent of grinding out a 10 km row, since I couldn’t make it to CrossFit again. It was just the sort of long, slow cardio I needed to help burn off some of the Christmas goodies I’ve been enjoying over the past couple weeks.

I ended up doing two rows of 2500 meters instead. I spent the first row just trying to figure out the interface and the programs, before starting a second row using the Pacer feature. It’s a neat idea, and a good motivator to maintain pace through your workout. The display tells you how far ahead or behind the pacer “boat” you are, along with a graphical depiction of the race.

I steadily worked up to about a 40 meter lead through the first 1500 meters, before getting a little lazy and letting the computer catch back up a little. But I turned it up again for the last 500 and ended up beating the computer by about 60 meters.

Compared to the standard Concept 2 rowers I’m accustomed to using, this LifeCORE model seems fancy almost to excess. The display is visually attractive, but not as customizable or easy to read as the Concept 2. The padded seat and handle on the LifeCORE did result in less hand and butt fatigue than I’m accustomed to, but something about the seat caused my hips to be a little uncomfortable, too.

I’m undecided on the rowing mechanism itself. Adjusting the resistance level requires you to spin the Select wheel on the display, which isn’t easy to do on the fly. And the resistance itself is just different. The initial pull feels a little closer to what water actually feels like, which is good, but the pace I was able to maintain was substantially lower at a given level of effort. It almost felt like rowing uphill. The caloric output estimate seemed low, although I’d need to do a longer, sustained effort to say for sure. Most confusing, the Watts meter seemed to fluctuate unreliably, sometimes getting stuck at 117, and other times jumping over 300. I know that not every one of my pulls is identical, but that’s a huge variation.

But in all honesty, that’s mostly nitpicking. I’m still happy to go use it, I’ll just need to recage my expectations a little. I do wish it made some nerdy sound effects, though.

Dec 262013
 
514 miles on one tank. The novelty of this has not yet worn off!

514 miles on one tank. The novelty of this has not yet worn off!

Our new (to us) BMW 335d is fun for a lot of reasons, but maybe the best one is the fuel economy. It has nearly twice the range of the Sentra it replaced, making it seem like we almost never have to fill the thing up. Which, when you’re running around as much as we do, is a pretty big luxury to have.

BMW’s little MPG needle below the tachometer is a surprisingly effective tool for helping to keep your foot out of the throttle, as well. It’s easy to want to romp in this car everywhere we go, but having a visual indication for how much that fun is costing you tampers your enthusiasm a little. Even with cold weather and city driving, we’re still averaging around 30 mpg, and as high as 36 when the driving is mostly highway. It’s nowhere near hybrid territory, but then I don’t want to blow my brains out after driving it, either.